Hazy, hazy eyes of crazed gray...loveless, loveless, loveless...and she dies.... Now she is back, lusting for blood and crazed with hate, craving for rest— Now Stevie must pay the price for what her ancestors had done to her.

"The last member of the Harker family died in nineteen sixty-seven, found with a slit wrist and a razor in her hand. She was found on the twenty-fifth of January already dead in her home..."

Suicide, thought Stevie, though she could really care less. With a flick of her fingers the twig in her hand flew a good distance away, landing with a plop in a puddle. The surface rippled brown, before it calmed like water does.

This new home of hers had a long history, as she had already been constantly told. It was a fixer-upper, and nothing more; it was simple, and she liked it, though she missed the bustle of the city—the suburbs, her former home, and lain right at the edge of a highway, with a mere twenty-minute walk to the tall buildings she had become accustomed to. This was no different—except it was quieter; the quiet was stifling.

With a huff, she loosed her legs from their crossed position, so that they dangled over the edge of the porch. Her new friend, Jenny, rambled on, unaware of her boredom. She was a good person, Stevie thought, but her lectures on history were not unlike those of the math teachers at every school she had gone to. Shaking her head to relieve herself of lethargy, she tuned out Jenny's voice; someone had died in her new home years ago, and supposedly said someone now haunted the house. A story that would scare or disgust a resident silly.

But she was used to it. After all, her last home had been haunted; it had been situated next to a graveyard as well as the highway. They had never bothered her enough to count.

This house was to be no different.

Stifling a yawn, she peeked at the sky, noting its blueness.

Damn..., she thought.

By the time she began to snore, the razor had already moved from its place.

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